


Nutcracker

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Ballet, Gen, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is four, and a sheep, and not very pleased about either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nutcracker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canolacrush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/gifts).



> The tenth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from narwhale_callin, who requested Sherlock/John, but gets Kidlock instead, so hopefully she can forgive me the lack of kissing!
> 
> For those who don't remember: there's a bit in the Nutcracker where the smallest ballet students, dressed as sheep, come in under Bo Peep's skirts. I'm pretty sure this was invented purely to ensure that parents buy tickets to the performance, but hey, maybe Tchaikovsky had a small daughter in ballet school; you never know.

“No,” said the little boy at the front of the line. Mrs Hudson narrowed her eyes and she looked at him, trying to place him. Forty years teaching ballet; tens of thousands of four-year-olds passing through her school, and she remembered every one of them, why couldn’t she remember…. 

He crossed his arms and stuck his chest out, tilting his chin up in a way that anyone who worked extensively with four-year-olds would recognize. The fact that he was dressed in a sheep costume only made him cuter. “It’s _stupid_ , and I won’t go under there.” 

Ah. Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft’s little brother. Of course. 

“Then you won’t go on stage,” said Mrs Hudson firmly, and Sherlock might have looked stoic and stubborn, but his lower lip trembled just a bit, as if he hadn’t actually realized there would be consequences and not concessions to his demands. 

Mrs Hudson busied herself with the other small sheep, who held their breaths and stared at Sherlock, either impressed with his daring or fearful that whatever possessed him to _refuse_ would catch them as well. They were _Sheep_ , part of a long tradition of _Sheep_ , and it was the Sheep’s role to creep under Bo’s skirts for their entrance. That is what Sheep did; anything else was unthinkable. 

Unless you were Sherlock Holmes, apparently. 

Mrs Hudson noticed the other little boy leave the flock and creep over to Sherlock, and when she realized who it was, smiled and pretended not to notice him, either. 

“If you don’t go on stage, your parents will be mad,” whispered John Watson to Sherlock Holmes. His cherubic face was earnest and worried under the sheep’s hood, and Sherlock sniffed and crossed his arms defiantly. 

“No, they won’t, they’re here to see Mycroft be Fritz, not me be a _sheep_.” 

Mrs Hudson had met the Holmes parents. She rather thought that Sherlock might be right. 

“Maybe,” said John. “But Fritz isn’t on stage when we are. So they’ll _have_ to look at you.” 

There was an odd light in Sherlock’s eyes at that, and perhaps five more minutes would have convinced him, but no matter, because it was time. “Queue up, Sheep,” said Mrs Hudson briskly. “Time to go.” 

The Sheep wiggled and waggled their way into a rather messy crocodile, and Mrs Hudson had decided that the performance would not suffer for having ten sheep instead of a dozen, when she saw John Watson take Sherlock Holmes’s hand. 

“It’s okay,” said John. “It’s only dark under Bo Peep’s skirts for a minute or two, and I’ll hold your hand the entire time.” 

_Scared of the dark?_ wondered Mrs Hudson, and then the children were ready to go, and she couldn’t give the boys any more time. 

Sherlock looked at John, startled, and then at their joined hands. Mrs Hudson opened the door to the little studio, and the music from the stage above filtered into the room, the chattering of the other danseurs, the shuffling sounds of girls in pointe shoes darting about. 

“Okay,” said Sherlock finally, and the boys joined the queue at the very end, just before a smiling Mrs Hudson closed the door behind them.


End file.
